We all met each other’s glances hesitantly, worried that eye contact might break down our fragile control over our emotions.  It was ocular tiptoeing.  Not wanting to be obvious about avoiding each other’s eyes—because that would make it worse—but worried one look might bring us tumbling down.  And we knew that if so much as one of us crumpled, we were all going down like a tower of wooden blocks when someone wiggles out that final piece.

We filled silences with forced chitchat because silence was almost as dangerous as making eye contact.  We had to keep the conversation going because if it stopped, we would know what the others were thinking about—the topic that we were all thinking about but trying not to, that we were avoiding just like each other’s glances.  As long as the conversation was going, we could at least pretend we weren’t all thinking about the unthinkable, the thing we hadn’t fully processed or accepted.  The thing that hurt us and numbed us all at the same time.

What hurt the most, though, was knowing how much everyone else was feeling this too.  So we soldiered on with stories about food or pets or summer plans—anything to keep us preoccupied.  Perhaps childhood games of pretend help prepare us for moments like this.  I had never thought of that before.

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When our professor walked into the class, I instantly noticed her unusual knitted cap.  I can’t remember if it was winter weather yet or not, but either way, that cap would have stood out.  It was a colorful knitted beanie, and I had never seen her wear anything like it before, especially not indoors.

She walked across the front of the room to the podium where the computer and projector controls were and began setting up, talking to us with her usual morning greeting—in Spanish, because this was Spanish class, and she believed in speaking in Spanish as much as possible during class.

As she was about to start into the lesson, she must have noticed our strange, slightly confused expressions because she paused.  In English, which was unusual for her, she began to explain.

 “You’ve probably noticed the hat I’m wearing.  It’s for a little girl in my church.  She’s been battling cancer for several years now, but now it’s back…and the treatments didn’t work this time—”

She paused a second, then continued, “—While she was getting treated, she always wore lots of fun and crazy hats, and so we’re all wearing hats in her honor today.”

Her voice was getting choked up as she spoke, and from the front row where I sat, I could tell her eyes were brimming.  And even though I had never met this little girl, this small tribute to her was so touching, and I struggled to hold back my own tears, overwhelmed with just a few words and a hat.  A seemingly silly accessory, woven with such meaning.  Even now, my heart hurts to think of the girl’s family and friends and what it must have taken to wear those hats as they knew she was dying.  Hats that weren’t just a tribute to her, but were a bridge connecting strangers to her story as it reached its end on this side of heaven.

I hope we would all have the courage to do something as simple as wearing one of those hats and sharing the story, even when it makes us choke up just a bit.